


Heav'n has no Rage

by DreamingPagan



Series: Hell Hath No Fury [3]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: And Abigail Makes a Decision, And Properly Comforted, Gen, In Which Charles Vane and Miranda meet, In Which James is Rescued, Prequel to Hell Hath No Fury, after that hideous display in Charlestown, or his minions, sorry but I find it hard to feel very sorry for Peter Ashe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-22 01:16:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14297571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingPagan/pseuds/DreamingPagan
Summary: Miranda is not a pirate. Abigail is not a stable hand, and Charles Vane is not a hero - but today the world changes, and all sorts of rules are about to be broken.James Flint McGraw is about to hang, or Charlestown is about to burn.





	Heav'n has no Rage

**Author's Note:**

> In case you missed the tag - this is a prequel to Hell Hath No Fury, and to some degree, it's setup for the upcoming sequel to Battle Raven, Like That of a Woman Scorned.

The Walrus sits in the harbor and Miranda can no more reach it than she can the moon.

She is not one given to swearing as a means of stress relief, or at least, she has not previously thought herself to be, but now, staring at the ship full of men who may be her lover’s only hope of salvation, she allows herself a truly filthy, vehement oath, hissed on a breath kept almost silent for fear of alerting someone. She is a fugitive in this city - a woman hunted, and she cannot be heard, or seen.

She bites back tears once again. She cannot stop here, because if she stops here, James will - will -

They've taken him away from her, and she will not make the same mistake twice. She has to go back, this time, and she devoutly wishes for just one other person at her side, as she had had ten years ago and squandered. If she had known then half of what she does now -

She does not. She could not have, and there is an end of it.

She closes her eyes for a moment, and then opens them again. There are soldiers between her and the harbor. There is also the small matter of the boats that stand between her and the Walrus, and therefore between James and freedom, and while she has no idea how to clear those obstacles -

Water ripples nearby and she ducks behind a group of barrels, heart pounding wildly. If there is a boat on the water, she cannot see it. She knows one went out some time since - she heard the proclamation, carried over the water, and felt her heart sink at hearing it, but that boat returned, and she has not come up with a way to row it back out on her own, and none of that matters, because someone - someone is walking up out of the water, armed to the teeth, and these cannot be Walrus men, can they? She had thought that she knew all of James’ crew, but perhaps -

She can hear the clink of weapons as they draw near. They pause, and then, almost too low to be heard -

“You know where to go. Wait until daylight to start the climb, and don’t get caught.”

Miranda flattens herself against the barrels, and presses her lips together. No, these are not James’ crew, and she may be in truly hideous danger because there, on Charlestown’s jetty, stands Charles Vane. She knows his gravelly voice, has seen his profile heading out of the tavern after he’d tried to kill James.

And now, he may be her only hope. She does not know why he has come, but she knows what she must convince him to do - what she must have of him by any means. She gathers herself - and then Vane speaks again.

“Once I have Flint,” he says, “I’ll give the signal. You fire - and then run. If you’re still in the fort when we reach the ship, I’m leaving without you.”

“Same goes for you,” one of the men grunts. “You and Flint aren’t back in time, I’m not hanging around.”

“Fair enough,” Vane says, and Miranda feels herself nearly collapse with relief. There will be no persuading needed. Well - almost none.

She has a score to settle, after all. She waits until Vane’s men begin to move and then, slowly, she stands.

“Captain Vane,” she calls, and hears the beads in his hair clack together as he whirls.

“Fucking -” he starts, and then stops.

“Mrs. Barlow,” he acknowledges, and she smiles.

“I believe you and I may be able to help one another.”

*********************************************************

He’s not expecting it when they come to set him free.

James feels his heart skip a beat when he notices Miranda’s eyes looking at him through the crowd. He’s looking past Peter Ashe’s legs at the time - looking past the man to the crowd full of morbid fucks there to see him hang - there to see the mighty Captain Flint brought low, and with the collar round his neck and his hands in shackles, he feels the part of the beast being held at bay. He feels, he thinks miserably, as though the world is looking at him, stripping him bare for all to see, and he cannot stand the feeling. It’s humiliating - a violation of the worst kind, and perhaps this is fate’s way of punishing him, for had he not left Thomas to experience the same horror? Had he not -

Had Peter Ashe not been the progenitor of that betrayal and is he not standing before him now? He has not had a name to put to the betrayal that has led them all here until now, but here, today - can this not all be laid at Peter Ashe’s door? Should he not feel the guilt for what he has done, as James has done all these years?

“Tell me, my lord,” he says, nodding past Peter’s bent form, “if it had been Thomas in my place - if I had gone to the madhouse and not he, would you be standing here doing the same to him?”

There is cold iron around his neck, and James has been trying to ignore it, but now - now he intends to use it to his advantage. He deliberately pushes his chin forward, emphasizing the slave collar around his neck, and he sees Peter Ashe flinch.

“Thomas was a lord,” Ashe snaps, angry now. “He was your better - in every sense of the word. That you are chained thus only reflects what you are - what you have become.”

“An animal,” James says. “That’s what you think I am. That’s what you’ve always thought, pirate or not. Admit it - or are you too much of a coward to say even that to my face? If you could do it - would you have _them_ pay to watch you bait me? Have them set their dogs on me perhaps, like a _fucking_ animal? Would -”

He stops short, and Miranda - Miranda, whom he told to run, whom he roared at only hours ago to flee - looks right, straight at him, her dark eyes fixed on him and on Ashe both, and James all but chokes at the sight.

“We’re coming,” she mouths, and James feels the breath leave his chest. _We’re coming_ \- no. No, no, no, she cannot mean - He tries to move forward, tries to get to her, and Peter Ashe’s eyes go wide. He steps back, and James’ chains rattle, holding him in place. The collar bites at his neck, and he is brought back to the wooden platform they have raised in the square - brought back to his situation, and he snarls.

“You’re a fucking coward,” he growls. Perhaps if he gets himself hanged fast enough, she will not be harmed. “You and every self-righteous, smug arsehole here, so certain you know right from wrong and good from evil when all you know is the sound of coin landing in your own pockets. Tell me, my lord - what was the price for all our lives? What did Alfred Hamilton pay you to sell Thomas to -” His voice is rising - he is gaining momentum, gaining energy from the rage burning through him -

He tastes blood - his teeth graze the inside of his cheek, and he reels from the blow that lands against his cheek, an open-handed slap that reverberates in his skull. His shoulder is on fire with the position they’re keeping him in, the bullet wound that is still so new screaming at him in agony, and there is blood trickling down his face now, but he is not focused on any of it, because Miranda is now slipping away through the crowd - heading away from him, her steps deliberate, becoming lost in the crowd and James cannot follow, cannot stop her.  

“Proceed with the trial,” Peter Ashe snaps, and James curses him, shouts more abuse at the Governor of the Carolina Colonies. “No - do not unlock those shackles, he can stand trial just as he is. Goodbye, Captain Flint. May God have mercy on you - I will not.” James spits, and Ashe grimaces, wiping at his expensive coat, and is gone, and with him James’ only chance at stopping this before it can begin. He curses, and struggles, and tries to hide the terror that is starting to flutter in his chest, hides it behind a layer of rage as he watches Miranda reach the edge of the square and disappear. She is going to die - she cannot possibly get him out of here, but she is going to try, and there is nothing he can do to prevent it except to keep from drawing attention to her, and the thought sends a wave of despair tinged with guilt and grief, through him. His own deeds have come back to haunt him - he has no doubt of it, not now, with his hands quite literally tied, sitting as Miranda has sat all these years, unable to move, unable to put a halt to the mad plan of the one living person in all the world he still loves, whatever that plan might be. If ever he had any notion of meeting Thomas in the afterlife - of explaining his deeds to him, of being forgiven - it is gone now, for how can his lover possibly excuse him this - that he got Miranda killed trying to save him?

The crowd is jeering, and if his head were not pounding, his body aching, his heart feeling as if someone had taken hold of it and squeezed, he might mind, but as it stands, all he can do is sit, and meet the gaze of the inquisitive children standing near his feet, and wonder when and if this nightmare is about to end.

***********************************

“If they try to put me in one of those collars, there won’t be a single English soldier left alive in that square.”

Charles Vane’s voice rumbles next to her ear, and Miranda turns.

“We have one goal here,” she snaps. “Your vengeance - and mine - are going to have to wait.” She turns her attention back to the square, and she can feel Vane’s eyes on her. “I want them dead too,” she mutters finally, and she could swear she can sense him grinning.

“Trust Flint to take up living with a woman more pirate than he is,” he murmurs, and Miranda closes her eyes for a moment.

“I should never have allowed him to take it on alone.” After today, she vows, it will be different. There will never be such a gap between them ever again - not if she has anything to say about it. “Are we ready?”

“Yeah. Sure you don’t want to come along?”

“Peter Ashe has already shown he has no qualms about shooting me,” Miranda says. “Let’s not give him another chance, or excuse.”

“Notice you don’t give a shit if he shoots me.”

“ _You’ve_ never told him he is wrong.” She can feel the twist in the pit of her stomach as she says it. Of all the people - all the possible culprits - _Peter_ -

There is silence between them for a second, and then, to her surprise, Vane speaks again.

“You get first right to his head on a spike,” he murmurs, and she wishes she did not find it reassuring. “I’ll make sure to bring Flint back safe.”

“James,” she corrects. “His name is James.”

Vane looks past her, toward the man sitting in the center of the square, chained at the hands, feet, and neck, and seems to reevaluate - and more importantly, to feel some spark of pity.

“Yeah,” he answers, “Think he’s earned the right to that much at least.”

She turns her gaze to him - and is almost surprised to find sympathy in his gaze as he looks at her lover.

“No man deserves that,” Vane says, gesturing to the chains holding James to the platform, and the jeering crowd. “Hold tight here, and when the shooting starts -”

“Do not get in my way,” Miranda says, and Vane nods.

“Happy hunting,” he replies.

****************************************************************

Abigail Ashe is not going to Savannah.

She knows what her father has decreed. She can still see in her mind’s eye the face of Peter Ashe this morning as he had sat her down.

_“I am glad you stopped Colonel Rhett.”  The words surprise her - as does the look on her father’s face._

_“You are?”_

_Her father nods, and sinks down onto the windowsill with a sigh._

_“He is a good man but he can be something of a loose cannon,” he admits. “I have no desire to see Lady Hamilton killed.”_

_“And yet you would gladly murder Mr. McGraw.”_

_The room goes silent at that, and after a moment, Peter speaks again._

_“Abigail - whatever service Captain Flint might have done you, whatever debt you feel you owe him - the man is a pirate -”_

_“That man rescued me,” Abigail snaps. “He and Lady Hamilton saw me taken from a filthy cell, treated decently for the first time in weeks. They did more, sir, for my peace of mind than you have done since I was a child, and now -”_

_“He is a criminal, and whatever kindness he may have shown you was done for his own benefit,” Peter Ashe interrupts, his tone suddenly sharp. “It has ever been thus, and I only regret that you were brought into contact with him and his partner at all, when I had hoped only to have you reunited with me in safety. If I am to see that goal realized, then I must have order here, and that means that justice must be served.”_

_“Without thought of mercy?”_

_There were, she thinks, girls at her finishing school in England who would have gasped at her boldness. There were women there, too, who would have scolded, with half a mind to her safety and the other half focused on her future marriage, and she is not quite certain why it is that their lessons had never taken. Perhaps, she thinks, because the influence of men was removed from her world at such an age that she had no cause for terror, either of being struck or married off. The larger mystery, then, is why she still feels nothing in the face of Peter Ashe’s suddenly very real presence - or the look on her father’s visage. She raises her chin, and meets his eyes, and does not falter._

_“You raised me,” she says, “to respect the truth. To know that it is the root of all virtue. The truth, as I see it, is that a man and a woman rescued me - cared for me - and now one of them is a fugitive in your city and the other is about to be murdered, and the only person, it seems to me, to have committed a crime in all of this is still in your employ. And you are sending me away because you’re afraid someone might ask me what happened in this house last night and that I would tell them. Is that not the truth?”_

Her father, she recalls, had not been impressed with her logic - but then she is not impressed with his sense of morality, and so she considers them approximately even. It is why she feels very little remorse when, upon leaving her father’s house, she does not get into the waiting carriage - only feigns distress and asks to be excused for a moment before she leaves for Savannah. She turns, and heads back toward the house, having ostensibly forgotten something - and then slips out a window on the ground floor and makes her way to the stables in the back of the house.  She only hopes that the groomsmen will not be in too much trouble when they discover her horse missing. She hopes too that the missing horse will prevent the discovery that a spare set of clothing has been appropriated from their quarters as well. Her father’s men will be looking for a young woman, after all - not a stable hand.

Perhaps, if she finds Lady Hamilton, she can do some good. She has a good notion where she may be, and there too she will find Mr. McGraw. While she does not know what may be done to aid him, she knows one thing for certain. She cannot stay in this city - and she will not do as her father orders.

****************************************************************************

James Flint, Charles thinks, looks like hell. It’s a good thing Charles is planning on rescuing the man - he doesn’t look like he can take much more.

They’re sitting directly in the center of a large crowd of people, and for all that, there’s nothing to stop them talking - nothing to stop them planning. Peter Ashe might have a reputation as a pirate killer, but his bailiffs are pig ignorant, and Charles couldn’t be more pleased about it.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Flint’s voice sounds more pissed off than anything else. For a man facing the gallows, he doesn’t sound awfully frightened - but then he shouldn’t be, and Charles can’t help but approve of the other man’s courage.

“Came to take your ship. Stayed to get you out of all of this,” he answers. “Figured if anyone was going to make a trophy of you, it really ought to be me.”

The man beside him on the platform looks as though he’s had a long, rough night, and he thinks he can see blood welling beneath Flint’s frankly fucking excessive restraints. Charles hasn’t been to many trials - or any, really, if he’s honest, unless he counts the one Teach had taken him to when he was young. His mentor’s point had been to acquaint him with what he faced if caught and knock some sense into his reckless young head; Charles had merely given him a look, asked if Teach really thought he didn’t understand what pain was, no matter its form, and been permitted to leave, but he doesn’t think this can possibly be standard practice.

“You alright?” he asks, and Flint shoots him a look.

“Whatever you’re planning,” he says, “if you get Miranda killed in the process, I’ll -”

It’s not an answer, and Charles doesn’t particularly have the time for a long conversation.

“She knows exactly what’s going to happen,” he interrupts. “Gotta give your wife this - she’s got balls.”

“If Miranda gets killed,” Flint repeats, ignoring him, “I’ll pull your liver out through your nose.” For as much as he undoubtedly means what he says, he does not seem to have registered Charles’ words, and Charles raises an eyebrow.

“That bad, huh?”

Flint glares. He looks like he wants to say something more, but also seems to understand that a denial would sound less than convincing. Instead he turns his gaze away from Charles, toward the surrounding people.

“You’ve got their attention,” he admits gruffly. “What happens next?”

Charles doesn’t answer - just raises his eyes toward the skyline, and the fort.

“Got a temper, your Miranda,” he says. “Not fond of Peter Ashe. Or this city. You alright with that?”

In another life, he thinks, he and Miranda Hamilton-Barlow might have had a few interesting conversations. In this one, he looks at her husband - at the man he’s been feuding with for the past decade - and suddenly sees a kindred spirit where none was before. Flint’s expression matches his name, and his eyes briefly scan the crowd, looking for Miranda no doubt. Whatever he sees there seems to bolster him.

“They’re all trying to convince themselves that they’ve got nothing to fear,” he says, and if Charles listens, he thinks he can just about hear the sound of a thread breaking - or sand running out of a glass, maybe.

“You wouldn’t be up here if they weren’t,” Charles answers, and Flint nods. The chains they’ve put him in rattle as he looks about him, and Charles reminds himself again that in a few minutes, he’s going to find and strangle the person that thought to use such restraints on a free man of Nassau, and one of their best at that.

“We can run, but it won’t change a thing,” Flint says lowly, “and I have no intention of ending up here again.”  He does not move, but there is fury in every line of him - fury, and fear, and fierce determination, and Charles looks him up and down once.

“What do you suggest?”

“That we remind them,” Flint answers, “that they were right to be afraid.”

He turns his gaze to Charles. Their eyes lock, and then Charles nods, and gets to his feet.

“What are you doing?” Ashe’s dog barks, and Charles sneers.

“I wish to speak,” he says, “on behalf of the defendant.”

*******************************************************************************

She has only just reached the square when Captain Vane begins to speak, and the sound of his voice arrests her entirely.

“These men convinced you that they speak for you,” Vane says, and Abigail knows. She can feel her heart speed up, can feel her stomach turn - “That the power you have given them is used in your interests,” Vane continues, and Abigail turns away for a moment - stares at the ground, and feels tears well in her eyes.

“Stop,” she whispers, and Vane continues, inexorable.

“That the prisoner before you is your enemy and they your friends,” he says, and Abigail looks up, startled, for has she not had the same thought?

It is not right. She knows what is coming. She knows what they intend and - and -

“For those of you who live to see tomorrow,” Vane finishes, “know that you had a choice to see the truth, and you let yourselves be convinced otherwise,” and Abigail cannot breathe, cannot think, cannot -

Her father is about to die. She knows it with every fiber in her being and she knows why, now. She knows why, and there, in the crowd nearby, stands Lady Hamilton, her gaze fixed on Peter Ashe. Abigail could stop her. She could make this stop with one scream -

Vane stands, and raises his arms, and Abigail looks to her father - to the arrogant look on his face, and his cold eyes, and at Mr. McGraw, still seated, still bound hand and foot, about to die for the crime of helping her. One or the other - she cannot have both, and the enormity of the choice staggers her. She cannot have it both ways. It is either or, and she is the only one who can stop this -

Can she? Is it not too late? _Can_ she choose?

She must.

“That the prisoner before you is your enemy and they your friends,” she whispers to herself, and hears the truth in the words. Her father has done this. He has done it - killed people, brutalized them -

Vane’s hands come down, and the choice is made, and she cannot stop herself weeping with it. She has chosen.

The explosions start a moment later.

***************************************************************

“Vane you fucking idiot!”

James ducks a piece of falling rubble, and tugs uselessly at his restraints.

“What the fuck were you thinking?!”

“You wanted them afraid - now they are!”

“Blowing up the fucking square is not what I had in mind!” James snarls, and Vane ducks as another round hits a nearby building.

“Shut up and help,” he snaps, and moves to James’ side.

“These chains won't just evaporate,” James starts to snap. “What the fuck do you want me to do-?” and then he stops, staring at the slender, wiry form moving toward them, ducking at each new explosion.

“Mr. McGraw!” the girl shouts, as Vane turns, and it’s all James can do to grab hold of Vane’s hands as he raises a gun.

“No!” James barks, and Vane stops, giving Abigail Ashe the time to scramble up onto the platform.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he yells, and Abigail raises her chin stubbornly.

“I came to help Mr. McGraw, since Lady Hamilton appears to be - busy.” She is trying not to cry, James can tell, and Christ, when he brought her here he never intended this-

“How can I help?” she asks, and James reaches out to grip her wrist as best he can.

“Get out of here,” he all but shouts over the screaming and the sound of falling rubble. “You’re going to get hurt if you stay -”

“She’ll get hurt worse out there,” Vane barks. “Flint - Flint, for fuck’s sake -” Mortar crashes to the ground between them - Vane swears again, and Abigail jumps backward.

“Vane, if you get her killed, I’ll fucking haunt you,” James snarls, and Abigail nods, too jaded already not to believe him. So does Vane - he can see it in his eyes.

“There won’t be enough left to haunt in a minute,” Vane retorts. He looks around them - there is nothing to use for leverage, and the scaffold that James is still chained to is one of the few structures in the square that is still standing. Vane swears again, and Abigail grimaces, and James’ gaze focuses on her.

“Miss Ashe,” he says, and she lets out a half hysterical laugh. He has to agree - he sits, chained at his neck and hands, all but condemned, and yet if he did not know better, he would think them sat at one of Thomas’ salons.

“I’m gonna need a second set of hands,” Vane says, and reaches out, grabbing Abigail’s arm. “Need you to grab hold of this bar and pull as hard as you can,” he says, and then James loses sight of Abigail as she moves behind him. “I’m gonna kick as hard as I can - don’t let go, and don’t let the bar fly back,” Vane instructs. “On three. One, two -”

“Wait!”

James honestly did not think it was possible to be as relieved as he is in this moment, but he is - by God, he is.

“Miranda,” he all but gasps, and his lover reaches the platform, climbs the stairs at a run and then, reaching him, she bends and embraces him, burying his face in her shoulder.

“James,” she whispers into his hair. “It will be alright soon, I promise you.” He is filthy - covered in the residue of the disgusting cell they had flung him in and now in dust from the surrounding buildings and trembling beneath the leather of his coat, but just for this moment he is safe - he is _saved_. He cannot raise his hands to embrace her in return as he wishes, but he will - he is going to hold her and never let her go again the moment that his hands are free. She lets go and straightens again, and hands Vane the keys.

“Use these,” she says, and Vane does not waste time in thanking her, or for any other pleasantries. They need to move - they all do, and out of the corner of his eye, James can see Miranda and Abigail looking at one another, and he knows he is not imagining the spray of crimson he sees staining Miranda’s dress. He cannot know how Abigail feels, seeing it - there is a moment of silence and then, quietly -

“He is dead, isn’t he?’

The square is still full of screaming, dying people. There are gunshots going off, but here, for this one moment there is the strange sort of quiet that sometimes comes in the midst of battle, and he can hear Miranda sigh.

“Yes,” she admits. “I am sorry, Abigail, truly I am -”

James feels the collar lift from his neck, held in Vane’s hands. He is distracted momentarily, because of all the wonderful sensations in the world, this one has to rank among the top ten. Freedom, and it could not have come a moment too soon, for he cannot recall the last time he felt so utterly exposed, so degraded as he has done this past day. The foul thing is flung away, into the fallen debris in the square, and then Vane offers him a hand up. Miranda turns to embrace him again, and if he returns it too fiercely, or pulls back only to kiss her forehead, she does not point it out, and he is left looking at the small party that has conspired to free him.

He is free, and Thomas will never know that sensation, and he stands in the middle of the city that belongs to the man responsible. He meets Miranda’s eyes, and feels again a sense of overwhelming relief at the realization that they are finally, finally of one mind.

“We must reach the ship if we are to finish this,” Miranda says softly, and James nods.  

“I am coming with you,” Abigail says, and Miranda starts to protest, and is cut off by the sound of more explosions.

“We can talk it over on the ship,” James suggests. “We need to leave.”

“I am coming with you,” Abigail repeats. “I have no place here any longer.” She then turns back toward James.

“Let me lead the way,” she pleads. “My presence may save us some trouble.”

“Flint. Barlow! Bring the kid and let’s move,” Vane barks, and then they are all on their way to the jetty. If James sticks a little too close to Miranda and Vane, or if Abigail steps in front of him as if to shield him, striking forward with an air of bloody-minded fury at the sight of the raw patches on his wrists, well - none of them comment.

They are leaving Charlestown, and whatever awaits beyond it, none of them intend to wear civilization’s chains again.

****************************************************************

“So,” Vane says later that night. “Living with a widow instead of marrying her, huh? I was beginning to think you were a monk or something. You’re full of surprises.”

He grins at James, who rolls his eyes and takes the bottle that Vane offers him.

“It’s none of your business,” he answers, but it’s half-hearted - he has no rancor left for the man that helped save his life and Charles knows it. Silence falls between them, and for a moment they simply sit, not talking - companionable, somehow. It’s strangely relaxing.

“I used to wonder, you know,” Vane says after a moment, “what the fuck your problem was. Used to think you wanted us all back under the boot, whether it be yours or England’s. And now I come to find out you wanted the same thing I did all along. Life’s funny like that, isn’t it?”

James turns toward him.

“You saved my life today,” he says quietly. “After trying to end it no more than a week ago, so yes - I suppose it is funny that way.”

He gifts Charles a rare smile, and the younger man returns it. He relaxes a bit, shoulders loosening, hands no longer clenched so tight around the bottle - and perhaps that is what leads him to his next statement.

“Couldn’t help overhearing,” he says, almost hesitantly for Charles Vane, “what you and Mrs. Barlow were talking about, back in the tavern.” He frowns in confusion. “Is it Barlow, or Hamilton, or -?”

James’ world temporarily ceases to spin, and he stares at Charles, nearly slack-jawed.

The words are a deflection, and James does not register them. Charles Vane has just told him - has just said that -

He can’t know about Thomas. He can’t.

“How much did you overhear?” he asks, and Vane gives him what might almost be a sympathetic look.

“Enough,” he says. “Enough to know this isn’t just about what England did to you. Or to her.”

He’s going to be sick. He knows this for what it is - a threat, the kind that cannot be ignored, and he should turn, now, and kill Vane - he should, but he can’t, not here on deck, not where he can be seen -

“And what do you want, in return for keeping what you know quiet?” he asks, and Vane starts. He stares at James, and then comprehension steals over his features, and his eyes widen.

“Nothing,” he answers. “Fuck, Flint, I didn’t mean - you think any man here’d care?”

“Enough,” James grits out. “Too many. What the fuck do you want?”

Vane stands, and James braces himself. He cannot die now - not with Miranda aboard, not with Abigail aboard, not _now,_ which means he must treat with Vane - must find something to offer that will placate him _-_

“Flint,” Vane says, concern on his face, “calm the fuck down, will you? I didn’t tell you so I could have leverage over you. I said it because I never understood, before, what the hell you were doing but now -” He shakes his head. “This I can understand. Makes me think more of you, if anything - no man should bear that kind of loss and do nothing about it.”

He’s hearing things. It’s the only explanation - he must be hearing things, because Charles Vane - Charles _fucking_ Vane - did not just tell him that he _approves_ of James’ relationship with Thomas. He cannot have -

He did. James closes his eyes for a moment, feeling faint, and leans against the railing.

“Christ,” he mutters after a moment, and then opens them.

“Figured if we were going to fight together, it couldn’t hurt to start with some honesty,” Vane says, and James lets out a tiny, almost inaudible huff of laughter.

“Thank you,” he says, and Vane shrugs, moving to stand beside him at the rail, elbows hanging over the side of the ship.

“I’d tell you something to match it, but I’m fairly certain you know everything already,” he says, and James is still in shock, still shaking internally at what’s just happened, but still -

“You could tell me the deep dark secret of who the hell braids your hair for you now that Rackham and Miss Bonny are nowhere to be seen,” he answers, and he’s not certain what prompts him to do it - relief, maybe, making him giddy, but it gets a grin out of Vane.

“Better be careful, Flint,” he answers. “I might decide you’re next in line for the job.”

“James.”

Vane turns his head to look at him, raising an eyebrow, and James swallows hard. 

“I think you’ve earned the right to it,” he says, and he’s surprised when Vane nods, and holds out a hand.

“Charles,” he says, and grips James’ forearm. “So,” he says, after a moment, “about those braids -”

“I knew there’d be a price,” James grumbles, and Charles grins.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always, always appreciated and answered as quickly as possible. Remember friends - a happy writer is a productive writer.


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